


I'm Much Obliged For Such A Pleasant Stay

by spectaculacularsammy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Ghosts, Light Smut, Reader-Insert, Sam's sore shoulder, Season 10 Spoilers, comfortfic, reader comes from a family of hunters, reader is a widow, reader's husband was a hunter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectaculacularsammy/pseuds/spectaculacularsammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader Request:</p><p>    I adore your work on Ao3, especially Sweet Dreams Are Made of This.</p><p>    If you are taking requests, I think Sam needs a Sam/reader comfort fic because he looks like he’s in worse shape than Cas, who is actively dying. I'd love a fic where the reader is comforting Sam and it leads to smut. </p><p> *//*</p><p>    I couldn't agree more.</p><p>    As soon as I read the request, the hamster hopped on the wheel and thoughts came pouring out. This reader fic isn't as opened ended as most. The reader grew up in the life and married into it as well, making her a widow years before Sam stumbles into her life. She owns a bar, she's tough yet kind, and she doesn't like to take no for an answer.</p><p>    Fic takes place just before Sam cures Dean. I like to think the reader gave Sam the comfort and encouragement he needed to find Dean and do what he had to do. :)</p><p> Title borrowed graciously from Zeppelin's Ramble On.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_ataralasse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ataralasse/gifts).



_Leaves are falling all around, It's time I was on my way._  
_Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay._  
_But now it's time for me to go. The autumn moon lights my way._  
_For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way._  
_Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I've got one thing I got to do..._

_-Ramble On.  
Led Zeppelin _

 

"I hear there was a fight here last night?" A man whose badge identifies him as FBI Agent Lemmy Kilmister, inquires in a hurry, like he's got a million places to be and only twenty minutes to get there.

However, upon closer inspection of the badge lying on the wooden surface of the bar, you count the incorrect amount of numbers in his ID and note that the FBI seal hasn't been updated. Instantly, you know the man standing in front of you is not a fed. This isn't your first rodeo, and coming from your family, it's easy to spot one of your own. 

Born and bred into a family like yours, a family of hunters, you see 'Agent Kilmister' exactly for what he is. Your daddy was a hunter, you were made a widow by a hunter; for you, the type isn't difficult to spot. 

You crack him a beer, even though he didn't ask for it, and ignore the annoyed look tosses your way when you put it in front of him with a coaster. "Didn't think a fight between two locals warranted the Feds to come all the way out here."

'Agent Kilmister' tosses a small wad of cash on the bar for the untouched beer and pulls a picture out of his pocket. "Was this man involved?" He sets the crinkled picture on the bar tucks his fake badge back into his suit jacket.

You can tell he's doing everything he can to keep his face hard as stone, but it's his eyes that give him away immediately; golden maple leaves floating in a river, searching your eyes for answers you know you don't have.

"Nope. Never seen him before," You answer after looking at the picture of a extremely handsome man, it's obvious the picture doesn't do him justice. "Would have remembered that face, I can guarantee that. They don't make 'em like that way down here. Believe me, I've looked."

Shoving the picture into the pocket of his black dress slacks, 'Agent Kilmister's' mouth upturns slightly into a sad smile. "Thank you for your time." And he moves to walk away.

Quickly setting down the bar glass and rag, you reach for his arm not held tight to his torso in the sling. "Can you do me a huge favor?"

After letting out an impatient sigh he doesn't even attempt to bite off, his eyes meet yours once again. "What's that?"

"There's been a couple drunk guys hangin' 'round back, givin' me crap when I take out the trash. Could you hang out for like, fifteen minutes, while I clean up?" You push his money crumpled up on the counter back toward him. "Beer's on me?"

That's a total lie, but your daddy taught you how to poker face with the best of them. A couple of drunken idiots would never cause you to bat an eyelash, but the hunter in front of you looks tired, banged up, and like he's hanging on just by the skin of his teeth; you've seen that look before. Your little white lie is for him, just to persuade him to stick around for a bit longer. Always being a daddy's girl, you've got a soft spot for hunters, and this one is in dire need.

He checks his watch with pursed lips and after a long moment, agrees. "Fifteen minutes, then I gotta go." He unbuttons his suit jacket, reaches for the beer, and settles on the black leather bar stool,

You crack a beer for yourself, and set it on the bar, grabbing for the broom. "Thanks." You smile up at him and start to sweep up behind the bar. "So, that guy. In the picture. He's on the Fed's most wanted list?" You wonder aloud, trying to get what little pieces of information out of the hunter you can with out him getting suspicious.

"Why do you ask that? Maybe he's just missing?" 'Agent Kilmister' takes a pull from his beer, after running his fingers through his hair, just barely flinching at the question.

"James Dean there, doesn't seem to have the look of Joe the Plumber, missing from his nine-to-five job," you answer, bending down to sweep the crumbs into the dust pan.

He laughs just a little bit. "No, he doesn't. No nine-to-five for him." His laugh fades away just as quickly as it came, and just a touch of sadness fills his eyes.

"You know him. Is he family? Best friend?" It's the desperate look in his eyes, this hunt is personal for him, and you're all too familiar with that.

Agent Kilmister cocks and eyebrow. "You a psychic or something?"

"Nope, just have eyes." You shrug. "And the second you flashed that fake badge in my bar, I realized you're no Fed. That was obvious right from the get-go." You metaphorically lie down the first card in your carefully guarded hand.

"That so?" His face stays plain, not letting any emotion come through, except for his eyes. His sad, tired, and desperate eyes, they show everything.

"So you're sayin' I'm right? You're not a Fed." You raise your eyebrows in skepticism.

" _Your_ bar? You own this place?" He changes the subject and you let him.

"Yep. Was my husband's."

"Was?" He asks carefully.

The bar was first and foremost your husband's bar, you only inherited it in the most gruesome way possible. _Demons_. Demons killed your dad, the killed your husband, they killed your whole family. It's not necessarily the most comfortable topic to discuss. Now it's your turn to change the subject while bagging up the garbage and tying it closed. "So, you stayin' in town?"

He runs his hand through his hair, for the second time, and you notice that it's a tell. "Yeah, I got a room down the street." He pauses to take another drink of his beer. "At the Econo Lodge."

"Is that so?" You shrug on your jacket and motion to the back door, silently reminding him of his promise to watch your back when you take out the trash. He follows you, buttoning his suit jacket closed around his waist.

"Yup." He answers simply as he watches you heft the huge black garbage bag into the dumpster with ease. The hunter tries to mask his astonishment that you're able to lift such a heavy thing as easily as you are, but your senses are keen from years of training, and you see his impressed look right away.

"Well." You dust your hands off on your denim covered thighs. "I know the owner of the Econo Lodge, and I also happen to know he's booked full through the week. Some sort of fishing tournament or something. You're going to sleep in that orange truck of yours, aren't you?"

"Uh..."

"Look, you're exhausted. You look about twenty pounds too thin, and I can tell you're nursin' that shoulder of yours. I got a comfy bed upstairs and it's yours. I guarantee it's a lot softer than anything you're going to get at the Econo Lodge, and way better sleepin' that the bench seat of your old beater."

"That's really nice, but I really...I really should get going." He takes a step backward.

"I'll throw in a couple of meals for you." You try to bribe the obviously exhausted hunter. "A hearty meal tonight, before you get some sleep. Something those bags under your eyes tell me you haven't had enough of, and another meal when you leave in the morning," you add, hoping the promise of hot food will entice him enough to take you up on it.

He squints at you, trying to decide if you're really offering a strange man your home and bed. You laugh at the look on his face. "Just doing my civic duty, helping a "Fed" and all." You use sarcastic air quotes.

'Agent Kilmister' casts a look over at his truck, and then looks back at you, sizing you up, trying to suss out your intentions. "That'd be great," he agrees after a moment of hesitation. "Thanks. I just have to grab my bag."

You nod your head and watch him jog over to his truck, toss a black canvas backpack over his good shoulder and jog back, taking care not to jostle his carefully slinged shoulder.

"Just have to lock up the bar and then we can head upstairs. It's just a small apartment, but it works."

"Anything's better than the truck." He smiles an actual smile.

After you lock up the front doors of the bar, the cash register and the coolers, 'Agent Kilmister' follows you up the narrow stairway to your apartment. Just as you slip the key in the lock you turn back to him. "Just so you know, I got a shot gun in here, and if your turn out to be a psycho, I also have a shovel out back. Just warning you. My daddy taught me well." 

And he did, that's not a lie. You could disassemble and reassemble a fire arm before you could do algebra. You're fairly fluent in Latin, as well as a handful of other languages, and can dig up dusty and time buried lore like no one's business. Your daddy didn't do many things in this world the normal way, but teaching you everything thing you needed to know to be safe in this world was one of the best things he could have ever done for you. You're also not unfamiliar with the how-tos and the wherefores of burying a body, though in your case, they've never been bodies of actual humans.

He laughs an actual laugh, to go with his actual smile. "Not a psycho." He pauses, searching your eyes like he still can't figure you out. "Just looking for my brother," he divulges, his smile fading, when he says the word 'brother'.

You nod your head, turn the key and push open the door.

"Welcome to Casa de _________," you announce with a grand gesture of your arm. "Kitchen." You nod to the room you're standing in. "Living room-slash-bedroom." You point to the small room adjacent to the kitchen with the recliner, TV, desk and bed in the corner. "And bathroom's through there." You point around the corner to the short hallway. "It's got a tub if you're into that sort of thing," you tease.

"More of a shower kind of guy, but thanks."

You extend your hand. "I'm ________." You give your first and last name.

He looks at your hand for a couple beats and then clasps it with his own. "Sam. Sam Winchester."

"I knew you weren't a Fed, but apparently you're a big Motorhead fan?" You wink and take his bag from his shoulder, setting it on one of the kitchen chairs. "Make yourself at home."

"Actually," Sam grabs his bag back and ignores the Motorhead comment. "That, uh, about that shower..."

"Be my guest." You nod to the bathroom with a smile. "I'll start up that food I promised you. You want anything in particular? I kind of only have girl food in the fridge. Salad stuff, maybe some chips and salsa, but I can run downstairs and grab a steak or something?"

"Anything you got is fine, really," Sam answers. 

"Well, I'm starving, so I'm going to go see what's thawed downstairs. Be right back. Just dig in the cupboards if you can't find anything." 

"Kay." He turns toward the bathroom, but changes his mind mid-movement. "Hey, _______?"

"Yeah?" You pause, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

"Thanks for..." He looks around your tiny apartment. "Thanks for all of this."

Giving Sam another smile, you open the door and go back downstairs. 

-

In the bar cooler, you find few thawed hamburger patties, and two steaks, thinking it should be more than enough, even though Sam looks like he hasn't eaten in weeks.

With arms full, you make your way back to the stairs, when the phone rings on the wall. You juggle the portions of beef in your arms enough to reach up, "Yeah?" You bark into the phone, since it's well past bar closing.

All you get in return is some drunken nonsensical babbling and after several minutes, it's decided that the call was a wrong number. You hang up the phone with an eye roll and head back upstairs, grabbing a pair of large Russet potatoes on the way as an after thought. Some carbs to go with the mass amounts of protein in your arms will do the half-starved man some good.

After pushing the door open with your foot, balancing the package of steaks and burgers in the crook of your arm and kicking the door closed, you see Sam jump back slightly from a stack of folders on your desk.

"Shit," you grumble, when Sam reaches for his gun in the waistband of his jeans.

The folders have old newspaper clippings in them, along with print outs and research from cases your deceased husband worked on years earlier.

"Who are you!" Sam yells, not pointing his gun at you, but clearly having it at the ready.

"Just let me..." You struggle to put the contents in your arms on the counter top, while keeping a close eye on Sam's downcast gun. The packages fall to the surface of your laminate counter with a thud and you turn to face Sam with your hands raised. "I--"

"Who are you?" He repeats his question roughly, interrupting you.

"Remember I said my dad taught me well?" You start with a slight look of apprehension on your face. "Well, he didn't just show me my way around a gun. He taught me lots of stuff. Like..." You hesitate, but then decide laying down your entire hand and going with total honesty would be the best bet, considering your current situation. "He taught me that salt isn't just good on french fries. He taught me how to pick out fake FBI badges, and how to spot one of our own." You wince a little bit.

"You're a hunter." He doesn't ask this time.

"Well... Not in the broadest sense of the word." You laugh nervously, still eying his gun. " 'I come from a family of them', might be more of an accurate description."

"Your dad." Sam makes a correct assumption, and tucks his gun back into his pants. "So you didn't really need me to take the trash out with you." He raises an eyebrow.

With an apologetic face, you shake your head. "No. I made you as soon as I saw your badge. Just thought...just thought you looked a bit rough around the edges. Like you needed a safe place to crash and some food. I just wanted to help. I know..." You look away and a sadness fills your voice. "I know what it's like to be looking for some one. I saw it on your face when you showed me that picture."

"Your husband." Sam whispers softly. Another correct assumption.

Chewing on your lip and looking down at your feet, you nod your head in agreement. "And my dad. Killed three years ago, last March." Your eyes dare a peek up at the freshly bathed man. "Demons."

Letting out a a deep and heavy sigh, Sam doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. What he's thinking is spread all over his face. He knows loss. You both do.

"So, I got a handful of burgers and a couple steaks from downstairs." You change the subject and force your voice into something resembling cheerful. "I was thinking burgers tonight, and steak and eggs tomorrow for breakfast, before you leave?"

"Sounds good to me," Sam agrees, letting the painful subject drop. "Do you need any help?"

"Nope, it's been awhile since I've cooked for someone other than me. It's kind of nice. Sit down, put your feet up, channel surf the five stations I get, if you want. They usually come in better this time of night."

When Sam sits down on the couch and turns on the TV, you turn back to the counter and start to chop up the potatoes. Once they're in a frying pan with a handful of herbs and the hamburger patties are in the oven, you start to chop of the lettuce and veggies.

With your back to Sam and his back to you, you ask, "You have any clothes you need washed? You look like you've been on the road for awhile and I got a washer. The dryer takes forever to dry, but if I start it right now, they'll be done by morning."

Out of the corner of your eye you see Sam turn on the couch to face you, but you don't turn back to him. "You don't have to--," he starts, but you interrupt him.

"Wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to," you assure him. "There's a basket in the corner. Just put your clothes in there and I'll get them going in a second."

Wordlessly, Sam digs in his bag and fills the basket heaping full with laundry. He brings it in the kitchen and sets it down next to you. After gently placing his hand on your shoulder in a silent thank you, he makes his way back to the couch.

Once satisfied that everything is cooking properly, and that the stove's flames aren't too high, you take the laundry into your tiny bathroom and start a load.

Out of habit you check the pockets of his black dress slacks, and find the picture he showed you downstairs in the bar. You look at the crinkled picture, at Sam's brother, and a sad feeling fills your heart. He's gone, for reasons you don't know, _missing_ , and though it's been three years, those old hurts rise to the surface. Before they become overwhelming, you shove those painful feelings back down, where you've kept then for years, and silently offer up thanks to any deity who is listening for pushing you to check Sam's pockets. Pictures of family are important, that much you know. 

When you walk back out into the living room, you sit down next to Sam on the couch, and hand him the picture. "Found this in your pocket," you whisper.

Sam takes the picture from you and looks at it for a brief second before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. "Thanks."

"How long has he been missing?" You wonder carefully, knowing hunters are pretty guarded, to say the least.

After another long and painful sigh, Sam simply answers, "It's a long story." And leaves it at that.

You can take a hint, so you change the subject. "Food'll be ready in a minute. You wanna eat at the table, or we can eat in here if you're sucked into..." You glance at the TV. "Murder, She Wrote?" 

Sam blushes slightly and shuts off the TV. "We can eat in the kitchen. Wasn't sucked into Murder, She Wrote," he mutters after he follows you to the stove.

"Hey, I'm not judging." You hold your hands up. "Angela Lansbury. She's... Yeah, I got nothing. It's an old lady show," you tease.

"I wasn't sucked in!" He proclaims with a grin. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's impolite to tease guests?" He bumps his good shoulder against yours as he digs in the cupboards for plates. 

Sam finds his way around your compact kitchen surprisingly well and sets the table while you plate up the fried potatoes and cheeseburgers. He gets the salad dressing, a couple fresh beers, and burger toppings from the fridge as you bring the food to the table. He doesn't make a show of it, but he pulls your chair out for you before you sit down. It's a pleasant shock; his kindness and chivalry, but it doesn't go unappreciated.

Once settled in his own chair, he passes you the potatoes and you hand him the bowl of salad. It's a comfortable silence while plates are filled with food and during the meal. Sam devours his first burger in lightening speed and salad with equal vigor, making you laugh softly.

"Still thinkin' about sleeping in your truck tonight?" You joke around a mouthful of burger. 

"Definitely not," he agrees and you push the bowl of potatoes closer to him. 

"What? No burgers or salad in there?" You pick on him, just a little bit more.

He laughs and piles more salad and potatoes on his plate. "Maybe a flat bottle of Mr. Pibb and a bag of crushed Funyons."

"Wow! Breakfast of champions."

"Not exactly." Sam starts on his second burger.

"Sam?" You ask after pushing your plate away and reaching for your beer.

"Yeah?" He looks up at you.

After a long drink of your beer, you meet his eyes. "I don't want to stick my nose in where it doesn't belong, but if you need help... With your brother. Finding him, I mean. I can help if---"

Sam sets down his forkful of salad and rests his hand on yours, "You are helping me. This." He nods to the meal in front of him. "This is helping, but I need to do this on my own. It's gotta be me who does it."

"Yeah, okay. I get that. It's just...if you need to talk. I'm not unfamiliar with the territory. Okay?"

"Do you have anyone? I mean, anyone, in _the life_ , still...around? For you to talk to?" He wonders aloud, rubbing the rough pad of his left thumb over the knuckles of your hand.

Slowly you shake your head, watching his thumb move slowly. "No," you whisper, your voice cracking. "They're all gone now."

Sam blows a breath out through his nose and purses his lips. "I'm sorry," he echoes your sad tone. "I've lost just about everyone too. My family...friends. It's..." His voice trails off.

"Yeah..." You agree with out so many words. Neither of you have to finish your sentences because you both know what it's like. Sam laces his fingers with yours, not to console just you, but himself as well. You look up at Sam and meet his sad and tired eyes. With your other hand, you reach up to touch his cheek, to offer the same comfort to him as he's giving you. "You'll find him. I know you will."

Sam leans into your hand, his lips brushing over the underside of your thumb slightly. After the smallest pause, he closes his eyes, and kisses the same spot. He waits just a beat, and opens his eyes, seeking out yours. For a silent moment, you both find solace in each other. He leans into you, so his face is barely a breath's distance away, and gently brushes his lips against yours. 

It catches you off guard, and you inhale sharply, but kiss him back, softly pressing your lips against his. The gripping, but oh-so slight movement of his lips against yours, causes feelings and emotions rise to the surface of your heart, the ones that only a first kiss between two people can bring forth.

Lost in thought, consumed by the small kiss, both you and Sam jump apart when the washing machine buzzes like a fog horn against the silence and stillness of your apartment. Shy smiles and nervous laughs are exchanged before Sam gathers up the dishes and walks them to the sink. Dazed for just a second, you watch his back as he rinses the plates clean, then you stand up from your chair to put his clothes in the dryer. 

After various forms of plaid and denim are loaded into the dryer, you dig in the cupboard for extra bedding. With arms full of sheets, blankets and pillows, you pause in the bathroom doorway to collect yourself from the short kiss you and Sam shared. It's been three years since another man has kissed you, three years since a man has touched you, and it's brought back feelings you haven't felt in along time. You smile as you flick off the light. 

Sam's got the kitchen cleaned and the dishwasher loaded when you emerge from the hall. He's nursing his beer on the couch watching a re-run of Mash. 

"What? No more Murder, She Wrote?" You tease again, setting the bedding down at the end of the couch and taking a seat next to Sam.

He hands you a fresh beer and shakes his head. "Nope. Time for me and Angela Lansbury to go our separate ways, I guess."

"How will you ever manage without her?" You smirk.

"Oh, I'll get along somehow." He answers through a yawn. 

"You're exhausted and'll sleep better in the bed, I'll take the couch," you offer.

"No, the couch is fine. Really, it's a step up from the truck." 

"I insist. Didn't anyone ever tell you it's polite to offer guests the bed?" You mock his tone from earlier. 

"You sure? I mean, I've slept on worse---"

You shut off the TV and walk over toward the bed. Pulling down the blankets and sheets, you gesture to the bed. "C'mon. In ya go. Put on fresh sheets this morning."

"Thanks," he adds after walking toward the bed. "Uh..." An awkwardness fills his voice. "Sorry about before. The kiss I mean. I shouldn't have---"

"It's fine," you assure him with a blushed smile, and begin digging in your dresser for pajamas. "I'm going to go change. Do you need anything before you go to sleep?"

"Nope. I'm good."

"Okay. I'll be right back." 

In the bathroom, you quickly change in an over sized tee shirt that hangs down your thighs, brushing your teeth and hair quickly. When you come back to the living room, Sam's jeans and plaid button up shirt are draped over the foot board of your bed and the blankets are wrapped around his naked chest. 

"Good night, ______." He says as you arrange the sheets and blankets over your couch. 

You click the lamp off. "'Night, Sam."

You've been alone for so long, the sound of another person's breathing is a comfort and you fall asleep almost instantly. 

-

Desperate whimpers twist themselves into your dreams and cause you to wake up startled. For a second you wonder why you're sleeping on the couch, but another set of panicky sobs remind you of your guest. You wait a moment to see if Sam will fall back to sleep on his own, but it's clear after a few seconds of his sad and almost scared whines, that he's having a nightmare. 

As quietly as possible, you creep over to your bed and rub Sam's shoulder. It's the one tucked carefully into his sling, so you take extra care to be gentle. "Sam, it's okay. You're just dreaming." You whisper and try to soothe him, rather than rouse him from sleep. 

Of course, he's a hunter and bolts upright in bed. He throws the blankets from his body and then winces at his tender shoulder. His eyes are wide, looking around your apartment, struggling to get his bearings. "God." He rubs his face. "Did I wake you?"

"You were having a nightmare. It's alright. You want a glass of water or something?"

"No. I'm okay. Thanks." You nod your head and turn to walk back toward the couch, but Sam grabs your arm, stopping you.

"Sam?" You quietly question his grip on you.

"Stay," he gently requests in the dark, the dim light from the hallway, barely making it's way through the shadows. "Please. Just...will you stay?"

"Of course. You alright?" You sit down on the bed next to him, trying to ignore the fact that he's no longer hidden in a sea of blankets, just a pair of boxer briefs.

"Yeah." He rubs his sore shoulder. 

With careful fingers, you shoo his hand away and gingerly work your fingers into his skin, rubbing out the first of many, many knots. When you reach around his chest, he lets you unclasp the clip of his sling, and unwind him from the black straps, hanging it safely over the wooden head board. After massaging his tired skin for a few minutes, he winces and pulls in a breath.

"Sorry. Did I hurt you?" You ask softly.

"Feels good," he groans, letting his chin rest on his chest.  

"Kay," you breathe. His groan letting free millions of butterflies in your stomach, but you keep at his sore muscles.

Your soft fingers apparently find that _one muscle_ , the one that's been aching for attention in his shoulder, because Sam lets out a whine, and leans his head into your chest. His switch in position causes your fingers to slide away from his shoulder, and relocate to the middle of his back, so you set to work on those muscles.

"You shouldn't be alone," Sam mutters into the skin of your neck, his breath hot and humid.

Your fingers go still on his skin and then travel up to his hair, smoothing it against his scalp. "I'm not," you claim softly. "You're here." You kiss the top of his head, noting to yourself he smells like your shampoo, fresh and clean, but with the smallest traces of gunpowder and Speedstick.

In the pale light of the room, Sam looks up at you, his eyes locking onto yours. He leans into you, pressing his lips to yours, once again. The kiss is gentle at first, but deepens when he cups your face in his hand, pulling it closer to him.

"This okay?" He murmurs through his busy lips. A small breathy moan falls from your mouth as your answer.

With one hand caressing the rough stubble of his unshaven jaw, and the other pressed up against the defined muscles his bare chest, you sit up on your knees, the need to be near him coursing through your body. Sam takes the hint and wraps his good arm all the way around your waist, gripping onto your opposite hip, and pulling you into his lap. You feel his face contort into another wince, the movement obviously jarring his shoulder.

"Here," you suggest quietly, taking his right hand in yours and draping it over the crook of your left elbow, elevating it slightly when you wrap your left hand around the back of his neck. The new position removes any pressure on Sam's shoulder, and uses your body as a makeshift sling, keeping you both close to each other. "Better?" You ask, nuzzling the side of his face with your nose.

"Yeah," Sam husks. "Much."

With his eyes glued to yours, he pulls your long tee shirt out from under you and slips his hand beneath it, rubbing the soft skin your back. The exquisite pressure steals a groan from your lips and Sam licks it away with a delicate brush of his tongue. Greedy for more, he wraps his hand around the fabric of your shirt and slips it up over your head, hijacking your mouth once again, like he can't bear to be with out it for even a second. Once he has his fix of your kiss swollen lips, he carefully untwists his arms from yours and finishes removing your shirt, throwing it to the floor. Sam's hand quickly finds it's place in the crook of your arm and he guides yours back to the nape of his neck.

Perched on your knees, you're straddling Sam's lap with opposite arms tangled together. Hooking your fingers of your free hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs, you lean back and ease them down his hips. Sam puts his weight on his able hand, pressing into your bed, and lifting his ass up, making room for you to tug them as far down his legs as you can. He finishes with a quick move of his legs and kicks them to the end of the bed.

With Sam completely naked and beautifully hard against the smooth skin of your middle, your hand moves down and wraps around him. He pulls in a tight breath at your slight touch, but moans deeply when your hand grips him firmly, and your thumb spreads the bead of precome dripping from his tip. As you move your hand up and down over the shaft of his slick and solid cock, the tips of his fingers dance over your pert nipples, tweaking and rolling them at various intervals. Finding each others lips again, you both take turns hungrily devouring every sound that escapes into the silence of your apartment.

Wanting more and not willing to sacrifice the closeness of his body pressed against yours, Sam steals his hand from your chest and slides it down between your legs. He shifts your underwear to the side and touches you softly; his skillful fingers rubbing and swirling over the swollen nub hidden in your wet folds. When his fingers don't relent, and he ignores all your attempts to warn him, Sam brings you right to the edge, and holds you close as you topple over, coming just from his deft fingers.

You rest your forehead against Sam's, catching your breath for just a second, when Sam nibbles just a little bit on your neck. "Front pocket of my bag, right next to the bed," he groans in a gravelly voice, dragging his teeth along your skin.

Reluctant to pull away from his mouth, but knowing exactly what he's referring to, you carefully lean over the side of the bed, and zip open the aforementioned pocket, producing a foil wrapped condom. After seizing the opportunity to shed your own underwear, you make yourself upright again on Sam's lap. Taking the lead, you rip the small square packet open, carelessly casting the wrapper aside and unroll the ultra-thin-reservoir-tipped Trojan around his leaking cock. He groans deeply as the clear latex envelopes him tightly, and his hips buck up when you nestle it snugly around the broad base.

Both Sam's hand and your arm, find their supportive and comfortable stations on each others bodies, and with his free hand, he touches your face tenderly, looking into your eyes. Then his fingers inch slowly down your neck, tracing curve of your breasts, your waist, and the fullness of your hips. His hand stops on your ass, lifting and situating over his throbbing shaft. Gently, Sam eases you down, your wetness wrapping completely around him, and clenching at the exquisite full feeling. You both let out simultaneous moans of pleasure, just basking in the euphoria of each others touch for a moment. 

Once acclimated to his beautiful size, you roll you hips over him, your free hand wrapping around the back of his neck, and pulling him even closer to you. His mouth, painfully and deliciously, crashes into yours, claiming your mouth for his own with a slow sweep of his tongue. Once a divine rhythm is established between both sets of hips, you ride him, relishing in a feeling you haven't felt in years. _Hunger._

Sam, being the astute hunter that he is, senses your ravenousness and makes his grip more firm on your ass, thrusting his hips up harder, pushing himself deeper inside you. Already sensitive from the orgasm that burned through your core previously, you cry out against his lips. He answers it with a low growl from the depths of his throat.

Hands tangling in his sweat damp hair at the back of his neck, you hang on and work to meet the brisk movements of his hips. The hand still draped over the crease of your arm, grips tightly as another guttural falls from his mouth, causing a warmth to spread itself through your center. You breathe Sam's name, a carnal whisper, a lustful plea, for him to keep doing exactly what he's doing, because you're moments away from coming undone for the second time, all by his doing.

He obliges with unyielding momentum, his strong hand pulling you down over him, again, and again, and again. White hot pleasure tears through your center as his arced hardness presses against that spot inside you, forcing an obscene moan from your mouth. Your hips, working yourself through your orgasm, coax an equally intense culmination from Sam and he emits a husky groan when his crest is reached, his face falling to rest against yours.

Gentle kisses are exchanges as you and Sam catch your breath, smiling against each others lips. After a few moments, Sam carefully takes his hand from the crook of your arm and tucks it to his chest. You climb off his lap, and lie down on his left side, to not accidentally bump his tender shoulder. After discarding the used condom into the trash can next to your bed, Sam nestles into the bed next to you, pulling you close and resuming his kisses. No words are exchanged, no promises that can't be kept are given, just a shared warm embrace in the afterglow from moments before.

The sun peaks through your apartment windows, just as you both fall asleep.

-

Hours later, you wake up in your bed, stretching your marvelously sore muscles, but when you open your eyes, the space next to you is empty. Sam's jeans are missing from the end of your bed, but you find his plaid shirt shoved down between the mattress and the foot board of your bed. Shrugging it over your shoulders, and buttoning a handful of buttons, you stand up from the bed to look around your sun-lit apartment.

"Sam?" you call out, but only silence answers you.

You check in the bathroom, but he's not there, and the dryer door is ajar; his clothes absent. Leaning against the door frame of the tiny room, you realize the obvious - Sam's gone, he's left to look for his brother. In a last ditch effort you rush to the door and run down the stairs, desperately hoping he's in the bar, but when you enter the dark and stale beer smelling space, you know he's not there.

Hearing an engine turn over in the distance, you hurry to the glass doors in the front of the bar, just in time to see his orange truck pull out of the parking lot, and speed off on the high way. You watch it until the tailgate disappears around a corner.

Forcing yourself not to be disappointed, knowing in your heart he would never stay, _could_ never stay, you slowly walk up the narrow stair case back up to your apartment. Once inside, you lock the door behind you, and walk through the kitchen, heading back to bed. Half way across your apartment, you pause at the table, seeing a piece of paper neatly folded against and resting next to an empty coffee mug.

It reads:

_____________,

_In any other version of this life, I would have stayed, never leaving your side, never leaving you alone. But I know you know this life and why I have to leave. I have to find my brother, I have to bring him home, and even though I know you understand, it doesn't make this any less difficult._

_Thank you for recognizing what I ignored and taking care of me in a way I couldn't. ~~If~~ When I find my brother, I know it'll be, in part, because of you._

_I'm so sorry about the loss of your family, your dad, and your husband. He was a lucky man to get to be with you for however long he did. I hope the right man comes along, one who can stay with you for the rest of your days and take care of you the way you should be taken care of. I hope for you to never be alone and to always be safe._

_Thank you for everything,_

_Sam Winchester._

_PS. Your dryer hose was clogged with lint. I fixed it for you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While looking for his Knight of Hell brother, Sam Winchester walked into a bar with only a picture and a flimsy lead. 
> 
> What he got was something that he was not expecting: you. 
> 
> Having grown up in the life, you had a story that most other hunters had: your father and husband were killed by demons, and you're all that's left. The one difference between you and other hunters is that you got out. 
> 
> Even though you saw Sam for exactly what he was – a hunter – you still invited him into your home, made him supper, washed his laundry, and shared your bed. That single night was filled with desperate passion, solace, and comfort, but when the next morning came – regardless of the things he felt for you – Sam knew what he had to do. He had to find his brother, but he left you a note telling you that if he were living any other sort of life, he’d never leave your side. 
> 
> Though he’s thought of you every single day, Sam’s always known that he’d never see you again, but as The Fates would have it, he finds you just one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever since I wrote the first chapter of this fic. I never thought I'd ever continue it, but I wrote this fic especially for ladyataralasse way back in the day, before she was my BFF, confidant, and beta extraordinaire, and well, now that her birthday is right around the corner (the 13th. Mine is the 8th, and we decided to exchange fics instead of presents) I couldn't think of a better fic to write than this one.
> 
> There will be a couple more chapters to this :) I hope you enjoy it. Happy Birthday!

Dean’s been watching Sam fiddle with this crinkled cardboard coaster for a month. He’s tapping it against the table right now, and it’s driving Dean nuts.

“What the hell is that?” Dean tips his beer toward the coaster in Sam’s hand.

“Oh.” Sam quickly covers the coaster with the palm of his hand and gets back to his newspaper. “It’s nothing.”

“Riiiight.” Dean rolls his eyes, not convinced. “So, you’ve been carrying around _nothing_ for a month?”

“Yes,” Sam grumbles.

“Oo-kay. Looks like some shitty bar coaster, but if you say it’s _nothing_ , then it’s _nothing._ ”

Sam returns his brother’s eye roll, but keeps quiet. The truth is, it’s a coaster that he took from your bar, the morning he left your apartment. He still doesn’t know why he took it. Well, he _does_ , but Sam doesn’t let himself think about it.

He still feels like a sap for leaving you the note that he did. He re-wrote the thing six times before he finally worded it just right, and just when he thought about taking back all the things he wrote about how if his life were different, he wouldn’t have left your side, you stirred in your sleep. Sam knew he needed to go; there was literally _no way_ he could have gone through a good-bye with you – _not_ with you.

Sam’s words in the note weren’t lies; he meant every single one of them, including the part how he hoped for you to find someone to make you happy and keep you safe. He knows that you know _the life_ , but that fact didn’t – and still doesn’t – make leaving you that morning any easier.

Every once in a while, Sam uses the know-how that he has and checks up on you – _just_ to make sure that you’re doing all right and _nothing more_. Last time he checked was a few weeks ago. Your bar hosted a BBQ for a local fishing tournament, and it made the local paper. Sam has the article in his wallet, but don’t tell Dean.

Sam hasn’t told Dean about you, or how you helped him when he was at his worst: worn, broken, lonely, scared, exhausted, and desperate. However, the way Dean’s eyeing him right now, Sam knows the inevitable questions are going to start.

“So, why the hell are you totin’ around that… _thing_ , anyway? A little memento from some dive bar where you picked up a lady-friend?”

“It _wasn’t_ some _dive bar_ ,” Sam immediately retorts, then curses himself for confirming Dean’s suspicions in five words or less.

“So, there _was_ a girl!” Dean exclaims, proud that he sussed out the information in two-point-three seconds. He holds out his hand. “Gimme.”

Sam scoffs and looks at his brother like he’s crazy. “No.”

“C’mon. I just wanna see it. I’ll give it right back.” Dean holds up his hand. “Scouts honor.”

“You were _never_ a scout.”

“So? I can still-- Shut up. I just wanna see it.”

Sam looks at his brother. He knows that this would be the part where a _normal_ person would whip out a good pair of puppy-dog eyes, but Dean doesn’t have those. Dean’s only got this grin on his face, and Sam just _knows_ Dean isn’t going to let this go, so he hands over the bent and ragged coaster.

“ _Phil’s Bar. Kingfisher, Oklahoma. Quarter taps on Thursdays. 405-555-3744,”_ Dean reads the faded blue writing on the coaster aloud and briefly lets himself think about how Sam was desperately trying to find him. He can’t even imagine the things Sam went through while looking for him, and whatever happened at Phil’s Bar must be pretty important to Sam, so Dean keeps the teasing to a minimum. He hands Sam back the coaster. “Quarter taps, huh? Did you go on a Thursday?”

Sam tucks the coaster back into his pocket and folds up his newspaper. He only offers a, “No,” so Dean leaves it alone…for now.

-

Two nights later, Dean’s driving down a dark highway, somewhere between Kansas and Nebraska. “So, who was she?”

Sam’s got a flashlight tucked between his jaw and his shoulder, looking at a map and trying to ignore the loud music coming from the Impala’s speakers. “Who was who?” he asks, not taking his attention away from the red and blue roads on the old and crinkled paper.

“The girl.” Dean turns down the radio. “In the bar. What’s her name?”

Sam clicks off the flashlight and folds up the map. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, _apparently_ it does. You stole a coaster, and you’ve hardly put it down the thing down in last month. I’m not tryin’ to give you shit; I’m just askin’ is all.”

“She wasn’t _in_ the bar, she _owned_ it. I went there….” Dean’s been _back_ for over a month, but that doesn’t mean either of them have really _talked_ about the weeks that Dean was… _gone_. “I went there, because I thought I found a lead…on you. It was a dead end, but she….” Sam sighs a breath, as he thinks about how he barreled into your life and stirred up all kinds of old memories about _the life_ and how it _used to_ be yours. “She… _helped_ _me_. I found you just a couple of days later.”

“Oh.” Dean wasn’t lying before; he isn’t looking to bust his brother’s chops about some girl he met on the road, but he does know Sam better than anyone. If Sam met a girl and kept something from when they met, it’s important – _she’s_ important. Dean’s just curious. Trying to keep all traces of innuendo out of his voice, he asks, “So, how did she help you?”

Wanting to keep the details to himself, Sam looks out the window at the black night sky and says, “She just did.”

Understanding full well that the conversation is over, Dean nods his head and keeps driving.

-

Three days later, Tuesday: The Bunker.

Dean slams a book shut, because the print is size 2.5, and his eyes are buggy. The second he does, Sam does the same thing, and they both reach for their beers. Dean watches his brother take the last pull from his bottle and reach his arms up over his head in a stretch.

“You know,” Dean starts. “Kingfisher is only about five hours from here….”

Letting his arms fall down, Sam shakes his head at his brother. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have said anything. “I’ve made the drive,” he answers dryly. “I’m aware.”

“Her number is on the coaster. You ever call her?”

With a huff, Sam stands up from the table and marches away from it, but stops after just a few steps. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?" he asks over his shoulder. "It was _one_ girl. Just _one_ night. It _wasn’t_ a big deal,” he lies, hating how much it hurts.

Dean looks at his brother’s back. “Apparently, it was.”

-

That night, Sam sits in his bedroom at his desk, flipping the coaster over and over and _over_ in his hand. All of the programs that he uses to find all kind of information on vics and suspects, sits right on the screen of his laptop, and Sam’s reached for his keyboard seven times to type in your name.

He’s gotten as far as typing in your first name, but then he deletes everything and goes back to flipping the cardboard coaster.

There’s a part of Sam that just wants to know about you. Sure, the programs that he uses really only pull up credit reports, driver’s licenses, social security cards, police records (yours is actually pretty colorful) old high school and college transcripts, and if your name has made any of the local newspapers – all of which he’s looked at more than a couple times by now – but there’s that part of Sam that just wants to see what you’re up to and know that you’re safe.

He sighs at his computer and closes it, then tucks the bar coaster into his jeans pocket. Another sigh falls from his lips when he pulls off his clothes and switches them out for something to sleep in, and after he climbs into bed, he snaps off the lamp by his bed.

His view of the ceiling is dark, but Sam still stares until his alarm clock reads well into the morning. He sighs again and rolls over.

Twenty minutes later, his lamp is back on, and your name is in the search field on his laptop.

Ten minutes after that, Sam’s got his bag packed, and he rushes out of his bedroom with a newspaper article about a fire that destroyed a bar and starts to bang on Dean’s bedroom door.

Another ten minutes go by, and Dean’s driving the Impala toward Kingfisher, Oklahoma with Sam in the passenger seat.

“Did you call her?” As soon as Dean asks the question, he realizes how dumb it sounds; the bar _just_ burned. “I mean, you obviously looked her up. Did you find her cell number?”

“She must have a burner,” Sam answers, not looking at his brother. “Just drive.”

“That article doesn’t say one word that would make it our kinda thing. It’s _just_ a fire; like a _for real_ fire.” Dean grabs the print-out from Sam and looks at it with one eye on the road. “The building was over fifty years old. Shit just happens sometimes.”

Sam grabs the piece of paper back and reads it over again.

_LOCAL LANDMARK DESTROYED BY FIRE_

_On Monday night, local firefighters worked unsuccessfully to save Phil's Bar after a fire started. Fire Chief Matt Clayborn says, “The building was fifty-five years old. It was up to code, but we’ve established that the source of the fire was in the kitchen.”_

_There were no fatalities. Only bar-owner, ______ ______, whose residence was in the upper level of the building, was at the scene. She was treated on site for minor injuries and smoke inhalation._

_The investigation is closed, and the property is for sale._

When Sam stays quiet, Dean presses, “You gotta give me something.”

Not knowing where to start, Sam only offers, “She wouldn’t just _sell_ the place.”

Dean doesn’t understand _at all_. Sam’s making him drive across one state and into another, and the damn sun’s hardly even up, all because some girl that he met on the road is selling her bar? “Why does _that_ even matter?”

“IT JUST DOES, ALL RIGHT?!” Sam yells, frustrated, because he can’t find the words to explain.

“Oo-kay.” Dean takes a breath. If Sam says it matters, then it matters. “Okay, so you say that she wouldn’t just sell her bar. How do you know that for sure? I mean, you said yourself it was just a one-time th-”

“Don’t,” Sam growls, giving Dean one of his best bitch faces. Sure, what he had with you really _was_ just a _one-time thing_ , but Sam hates that he _ever_ said it aloud.

That one night with you just feels… _different_.

With Dean being a demon and _gone_ , Sam was at one of the lowest points in his life, and you were there. You invited him into your home, made him eat when he hadn’t in days, made him sleep when he couldn’t remember the last time he voluntarily closed his eyes, and it was _you_ who gave him the tiniest bit of hope. Sam still likes to think that you had a hand in helping him find Dean, and if something happened to you….

Sam can’t even think about it.

There’s something about you that’s lingered in Sam. He’s thought of you every _single_ day. He’s wondered if you still only get those handful of channels on your TV, and when you just happen to stumble across  _Murder, She Wrote_ , if you think of that night – because Sam does. He also wonders if your dryer works better now that he cleaned months’ worth of lint out of the hose, or if you’re still all alone.

Sam knows that Dean’s right; the newspaper article didn’t have one single word that would, under normal circumstances, make them high-tail it to Oklahoma. However, there’s just something inside of Sam that just _has_ to find out what happened. Even if he doesn’t talk to you, because really, what would or could he say? What could he offer you? You were very clear that once your family was killed by demons, you were done. You didn’t want the life, and that’s all that Sam has.

“______,” Sam _finally_ says your name aloud, “would have _never_ sold the bar….” He pauses and looks out the window. “It was her husband’s.”

“ _Was_?” Dean asks carefully. He’s ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine, _nine_ percent sure that Sam would _never_ hook-up with a married girl, but Dean still has to ask.

Sam sighs, annoyed with what his brother’s asking. He’s not sure if it’s his place to tell Dean your story, but, once again, Dean’s right; Sam’s got to give him something. “Her dad and husband _were_ hunters. She grew up in the life, and it took _everything_ from her. She wouldn’t just sell the bar, because it was all she had left.”

Knowing that hunters, even ex-hunters, or people familiar with the life don’t just leave behind the few possessions that they have, regardless of how ruined they are – Dean’s rebuilt the Impala when what was left wasn’t even worth a tow – he answers softly, “Oh,” then looks down at his watch. When he sees the time, he pushes the gas pedal down to the floor. “We’ll be there by nine.”

-

At eight-fifty AM, Sam jumps out of the Impala before Dean’s even got her parked. As he buttons up his long, brown coat, he sees a dark blue truck pull away from the curb just a few feet away from him, but Dean’s at his side a second later, so Sam doesn’t think anything of the truck.

It’s still early in the morning, but there’s already a demolition and clean-up crew working to clear the charred property. However, even with both Sam and Dean’s best Fed suits and fake FBI badges, they aren’t able to get any information, because there simply isn’t any to get.

Just like Dean said, it was a legit fire. There’s no signs of sulfur, no witnesses to attest to odd occurrences, and nothing out of the ordinary. Still, both Sam and Dean talk to every person in charge, every local who’s come out of their home to watch the demolition of what has been described as a local landmark by the newspaper and more than one person, and they get nothing that makes them think the fire was anything more than _just_ a fire.

However, what is driving both Sam and Dean nuts is that no one is able to tell them specifically where you are. One person tells them that you stayed with a friend the night the fire broke out, another says that you stayed in a local motel, and another says that you left town. Sam does manage to get your cell phone number from one of your ex-employees, but when he calls it, the number is disconnected.

None of this sits well with either Sam or Dean, but just as they turn to walk back to the Impala, a woman steps out of a car and audibly gasps when she sees what’s left of the bar. Both brothers rush over to her, and after they introduce themselves, she tells them, “I’m Brenda. I’ve known ______ for the last three years. I-”

Interrupting her, Sam asks, “So, you met her around the time that her husband was killed?”

“Yes; just after,” Brenda confirms. “I was new in town and needed a job. I’ve been bartending for her ever since. I was on vacation for a long weekend, and I just got back into town. I just can’t believe _Phil’s_ is gone.”

Both Sam and Dean give her sympathetic looks, but Sam asks, “Have you talked to her since the fire?”

“______ called all of the employees Monday night, and then she called me yesterday morning to tell me that she’d sold the property.”

“Did she say why?”

“Yes and no, but about a month ago, something happened to her.”

Sam’s stomach drops; it’s been about a month since the day he left your bar. Dean sees the look on Sam's face, so he asks, “Can you tell me what that was?”

The look on Brenda’s face changes. Sam thinks it looks a little sad, but happy at the same time. “After Phil died, she always kept to herself. She never dated or met anyone else, at least not that she told anyone, but about a month ago, she kind of came out of her shell.”

Honestly, that’s _not_ what Sam was expecting. Not that he was picturing you broken and depressed over him, but he he’s had this part of him that’s felt like crap the second he left your apartment without saying good-bye. He’s always been sure that he hurt you.

Brenda continues, “We sat and drank more than our fair share of beers one night after that, and _______ told me that she finally realized that she didn’t have to live either in or out, she said that she could just live.” Brenda shrugs. “I don’t know what she meant by it, but the thought made her happy. She said that her and Phil kept the bar, because it was a safe place for their friends and family to come to, but that if something every happened to Phil, she wasn’t supposed to keep it. He wanted her to live her life and do what made her happy. So, I think that with the bar gone, _______ finally felt like she could let go.”

The month-old knots in Sam’s stomach finally start to loosen, and what he’s always wanted to know about you – that you were happy and safe – he finally knows. From what Brenda just said, you are both of those things, but Sam still asks, “Do you know where she went?”

“I don’t,” Brenda admits. “She just said that she’d call me when she got there. But she always talked about wanting to get a house in a small town, just some place to call her own. I’m sure that doesn’t help you, but that’s what she always said.”

Both Sam and Dean nod their heads, thank Brenda for her time, and make their way back to the Impala.

“You wanna keep looking?” Dean asks after he sits down in the car.

“No,” Sam sighs, but he’s got a smile on his face. He’s content with the information that he just got. It’s enough. You’re happy and safe, and that’s all that Sam _ever_ wanted for you.

*//*

Once the last of the property estate agent’s paperwork has been signed, you take one last look at what’s left of your bar. There’s a happy look on your face, because you’re able to see past the charred wood and melted bar stools. You’re able to see what the bar used to be, what you and your husband once made it into, what it meant for the two of you, and what it meant for you once Phil had been killed.

Phil always made you promise that if something were to happen to him, you’d let the bar go. He didn’t want you holing up in the dank and small, upstairs apartment that was more meant to be an office than anything. Phil always wanted you to start over and find love and happiness.

Even with your promise, you kept the bar for three years. Three whole years, you kept everything that Phil owned: all his old case notes, lore books, hunting gear, and even his trusty, dark blue truck. All except for the truck is gone, and though you know a part of you should be sad, you feel like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulders, you feel free, and as you walk toward the last possession of your deceased husband’s that you own, you know that somewhere he’s looking down on you, happy that you’ve finally kept your promise.

You close the truck’s door behind yourself and put the key in the ignition, forcing yourself not to look back that the burned and black remnants of the bar, only letting yourself remember what it once was. The only thing that you do look at is the deed for a tiny house in Lebanon, Kansas. It’s just a small, two-bedroom fixer-upper, but you’ve been eyeing it for weeks. Well, a month to be exact. The morning that you read – and _reread_ – the note that Sam left you on your kitchen table, you saw the perfect house in an ad online.

Like someone was pushing you, the morning after the fire, you called about the house. It was as if that same someone was helping you along, and everything fell into place. The house was already vacant and ready to be moved into in a week, and you already made your motel reservations for a place to stay until then. All that’s left to do is go.

Before you drive away, you tuck the deed into its file folder and put it into your bag, along with the blue and black plaid shirt of Sam’s. The only reason that you still have it is because you were wearing for pajamas the night the fire broke out.

Next to Sam’s shirt, sits the note that he left you. You’ve always given yourself crap for hanging onto it this whole time, but as it turns out, keeping it in the breast pocket of Sam’s shirt this whole time was the best place for it.

You read it over again:

_________,_

_In any other version of this life, I would have stayed, never leaving your side, never leaving you alone. But I know you know this life and why I have to leave. I have to find my brother, I have to bring him home, and even though I know you understand, it doesn't make this any less difficult._

_Thank you for recognizing what I ignored and taking care of me in a way I couldn't. ~~If~~  When I find my brother, I know it'll be, in part, because of you._

_I'm so sorry about the loss of your family, your dad, and your husband. He was a lucky man to get to be with you for however long he did. I hope the right man comes along, one who can stay with you for the rest of your days and take care of you the way you should be taken care of. I hope for you to never be alone and to always be safe._

_Thank you for everything,_

_Sam Winchester._

You tuck Sam’s note back in your bag, then turn the truck key in the ignition, and bring the shifter down to drive. As you pull away from your parking space, you don’t see the shiny ’67 Impala park on the side of the road, but even if you did, you wouldn’t recognize it. Sam Winchester fell into your life in an old, orange truck, not a black four-door Chevy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, The Fates' plans aren't what anyone expects, and sometimes, it's not The Fates at work at all. 
> 
> _Sometimes_ we have people watching over us, making sure we get where we're supposed to be, and when we finally get there, we find ourselves with the last person we ever thought we'd see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took an unexpected turn. I hope you like it. :)
> 
> Since today is ladyataralasse's birthday and this is her birthday present, it has not been beta'd with her fabulous skills. All mistakes are mine.

Once you get into your truck, you don’t let yourself look back at the charred patch of land that used to be your bar. However, before you look at the road in front of you, you look up at the picture tucked into the side of the map light just above your head. It’s a faded snapshot of you and your husband just weeks before he was killed. In the picture, you’re wearing your favorite pair of jeans and a comfy sweatshirt, but that’s not what you’re looking at.

In the picture, your husband’s strong arms are wrapped around you as he grins over your shoulder at the camera. He’s wearing his pale blue, _Phil’s Bar #17_ softball tee-shirt and a pair of jeans, and his dark brown hair is tucked up under a backward baseball cap. You smile as you look up at the picture and touch his face.

After taking a breath, you tell yourself that _this_ is what Phil wanted. He always said that if something happened to him, he wanted nothing more than for you to live your life, find love again, and be happy, and you’re trying. You bought the house that you and Phil always dreamed about, you’re leaving the burned bar behind, and you’re starting over. _This_ is what he wanted.

Before you drive away, you take one last look at the deed to your new house in Lebanon, Kansas and think about how everything _literally_ fell into place. Who buys a house and is able to move into it in less than a week? That almost _never_ happens. Yet, it is.

The morning after Sam left, you _just_ _happened_ to find the house in an ad online. You don’t even remember looking for it; it was just there. Of course, you didn’t think anything of it, because – in spite of your husband’s wishes – you just weren’t ready to leave the bar.

Then, in what seemed like an instant, the bar was gone, and one of the first things you thought of was the house. After the fire, you called about the house as soon as you could, and it _just happened_ to be available. This whole time, it’s felt like someone has been helping you along, holding your hand, and steering you in the right direction, all of it leading up to this.

When you tuck the deed to your new house back into your bag, you see Sam’s plaid shirt and the note that he left for you the morning he left your apartment to find his brother.

There’s been something about Sam’s words that has stuck with you since you first read the note. It’s something about the way he worded his thoughts, and as you sit in your idling truck and read them over again for the millionth time, you realize how much they sound like something Phil would have said.

The thought is comforting, and it makes you smile as you pull your truck’s shifter down into drive. When you pull away from your parking spot, you don’t see the black, four-door Chevy that parks just a few feet behind you, but even if you did, you wouldn’t recognize it. The man that you think of _every_ _single_ _day_ didn’t drive a shiny Impala, he drove an old, orange truck with Minnesota license plates.

But the car isn’t the only thing that you don’t see in your rearview mirror: in the distance, there’s a flicker of a man in a #17 baseball tee shirt with a backwards baseball cap, surrounded by a pale blue light. Just as two corporeal men exit the shiny, black ’67 Chevy, the other man smiles a loving smile, and no one sees when him and his pale blue light flickers away.

-

At the last stop sign in Kingfisher, Oklahoma, you look down at your phone and quickly scroll through a string of text messages.

When you jumped from your second-story window, and your feet hit the ground, the very first thing that you thought of was Phil. Then, like someone was whispering in your ear, you thought of Sam.

Once the paramedics gave you a once-over and deemed you well, you went to the local gas station, bought a burner phone, and called every single one of Phil’s old contacts that you could remember. After the last number was called, and you weren’t given the information that you were looking for, out of the blue the name, Garth Fitzgerald, popped into your head.

Way back when, Garth had worked a single case with your husband and father. You vaguely remember meeting him, but somehow, in that moment, you knew his number. Instantly, you called it, told Garth who you were, and asked if he knew Sam Winchester. In a strange turn of events, Garth _did_ know Sam. He said he’d not seen either Winchester in a while, but he promised he’d text you the last phone number for Sam that he had.

Fifteen seconds, later, Garth made good on his promise, and you had Sam’s phone number.

However, you never called it.

You’ve always known that the night you shared with Sam was just a one-time thing, but that never made it any easier. Not that you ever faulted Sam for leaving, because you didn’t, and you don’t. But that has never meant that you’ve stopped thinking about him.

That one night was meaningful. It meant something to you – still does – and judging by the wonderful things that Sam wrote to you in his note, he felt the same way. However, Sam’s got his life, and you’ve got yours.

It is what it is.

Shoving you out of your thoughts, a car behind you lays on their horn when you’ve been sitting at the stop sign for a few seconds too long. You close Garth’s text message, put your phone down, and drive toward Lebanon, Kansas.  

-

That night, it’s pouring rain, but you’ve parked your dark blue truck in front of the motel. There were a few unexpected detours, and your GPS got you lost not once, not twice, _but three times_ , but nearly ten hours later, you’ve finally made it to Lebanon. Once you’ve checked into the motel, you exhaustedly start hauling your bags into your room.

When all of your earthly possessions are sitting on the floor next to the king-sized bed, you wipe the raindrops out of your eyes and salt the window and door, since you’re not in the safety of your warded apartment or bar anymore. After you’re done hanging up some sigils and charms, you realize that not only are you tired, but you’re starving. Thankfully, there’s a diner just across the road that’s still open at ten o’clock at night.

For a brief second, you think about changing out of your soaked clothes, but realize that you’re going to get poured on when you go back outside again. Sighing, you open the door back up and jog across the dark parking lot, heading toward the diner.

However, halfway there, something catches the corner of your eye. There’s a color of pale blue that you’d recognize anywhere just to your right, and when you look that way, you see what you don’t even know you missed earlier this morning, before you left your bar.

It’s Phil, and he’s standing in the pouring rain, in a pale blue light, just next to a roadside Gas ‘n Sip, wearing his  _Phil’s Bar #17_ softball tee shirt, jeans, and a backwards baseball cap.

Your heart stops in your chest.

Standing just past the gas pumps, Phil gives you a smile that you’ve pictured in your head a million and one times. Just as he does, he flickers in the exact same way that you’ve seen a ghost flicker, but you still run toward him. You know in your head that what you’re seeing isn’t exactly your husband, but your heart tells you something _completely_ _different_.

Through the rain, you run as fast as your feet can carry you, and just when you’re barely five feet away from him, Phil flickers away. A second later, he and his pale blue light are back again and points toward the Gas ‘n Sip with that same kind smile on his face.

Instantly, you look to where he’s pointing, but you just see people inside the gas station. Confused, you look back, but Phil’s gone.

“PHIL!” you yell his name into the rain and look around the parking lot. When you find nothing, you look back through the window of the Gas ‘n Sip and see him standing inside.

Keeping your eyes on Phil, you once again take off as fast as your feet can carry you and run inside the gas station. Just as the little bell dings above your head, he’s moving toward you.

You freeze when he stops in front of you.

“______,” Phil whispers your name when he sees your eyes darting around the store. He knows you better than anyone and can tell you’re that worried civilians are going to start screaming when they see a ghost. “It’s okay. No one else can see me; only you. I used to hunt ghosts, babe. I know the tricks.”

 _Ghosts_. You’ve known it since the second you saw Phil, but now that he says it out loud, it really hits you. Still, that doesn’t make it any less confusing.

You were there when both your father’s and Phil’s bodies were salted and burned on those wooden pyres. Over the last three years, you’ve never felt any cold spots in your apartment, never had any dishes mysteriously fall off the countertops, or seen a single non-corporeal version of your husband.  

Quickly, you decide that it doesn’t matter. You can _feel_ that what is standing in front of you is _your_ Phil. “I miss you,” you just barely whisper.

“God, I miss you too,” Phil ethereally whispers back. “But I have to go. I did want I was supposed to do, for you.”

“No,” you beg softly, ignoring the last part of what he’s said. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Giving you a smile, he tells you, “I helped a little bit, but you won’t be alone anymore. _This_ is where you’re supposed to be. Be happy. Fall in love. Live your life, any kind of life you want. I want you to. Please, baby, do it for me. I love you so much.”

You open your mouth to tell him that you love him too, but before you say a word, Phil and his blue light are gone.

In shock, you stand in that same spot for what feels like years, swallowing down a sob that threatens to escape your throat. The customers in the gas station seem completely oblivious to the encounter that you just had, and next to the soda fountains and Slushie machines, you force yourself to catch your breath.

Pulling you out of your thoughts, a voice that’s whiskey-rough but kind at the same time asks, “Are you okay?”

Instinctively nodding your head, you breathe a soft and not-entirely-convincing, “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” the same voice asks you. “’Cause I gotta say, you’re lookin’ a little pale.”

“Really,” you answer, forcing yourself to smile. Turning to look at the voice, you start, “I’m good. Thanks for ask-” As soon as you see the voice’s face, you stop.

The voice is a man who stands a few inches over six feet and has moss-green eyes with little crinkles around them that become more prominent when he smiles at you. He’s got a splash of light freckles across his nose and cheeks and light brown hair with the chin-stubble to match.

As soon as you see him, you know you’ve seen him somewhere before. Because of the whirlwind of events – seeing the ghost of your dead husband – it takes you a second to figure it out, but when you do, there’s no mistaking it.

The man standing in front of you is Sam Winchester’s brother. You remember the picture that he showed you when he came into your bar almost exactly a month ago, and you remember finding the picture in Sam’s pants pocket when you washed his laundry.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, shocked. Sam is _looking_ for this man – his brother – and he’s standing _right in front_ of you.

Before you can think about the phone number that Garth gave you, how you should call it and tell Sam that you found his brother, the man gives you a good-natured chuckle, and you watch his green eyes twinkle. “I know. Not many can resist this handsome face.”

Despite everything, you feel your once pale cheeks flush pink. “N-no,” you stutter with eyes that have to be comically-wide. “It’s not that.”

“What?” He chuckles some more. “You don’t think I’m handsome?”

“N-no,” you stammer some more. “I mean _yes_ , but that’s not-”

“No worries.” The man shrugs and winks at you. “At least I got some color into those cheeks of yours. The name’s Dean, by the way.”

“______,” you shakily answer back. “I don’t know you, but I’ve met your-” And that’s when you see him: Sam Winchester, standing near the window that you just saw Phil standing next to. Sam’s got a newspaper in his hands, looking at the headlines. “Sam.”

Confused, Dean wrinkles his forehead at you. “You’ve met my _what_?”

You’re too busy staring at Sam and his newspaper to watch Dean look back and forth between his brother and you, but he must figure it out. “You’re _______?” he asks. “ _Ohhhh._ ”

Like Sam can feel you staring at him, he looks up from his newspaper, and his eyes meet yours. You watch him freeze for a second and look at you, shocked, then he puts the paper back on the countertop and starts to walk toward you.

“_______,” Sam barely breathes your name, and you can hear the surprise in his voice.

Just as he says your name, you remember exactly what Phil said you just moments before, _I helped a little bit, but you won’t be alone anymore. This is where you’re supposed to be. Be happy. Fall in love. Live your life, any kind of life you want. I want you to. Please, baby, do it for me. I love you so much._

Finally, everything that has happened in the last couple of days catches up with you: the fire in your bar, leaving behind the few friends that you have, seeing the ghost of your dead husband, and then Sam – _both_ men that you’ve thought about _every single day,_ but thought you’d _never_ see again.

The sob that threatened to erupt from your throat just moments before makes its way to your lips, but you clap your hand over your mouth before anything can come out.

The next thing you know, your legs have taken you back out into the rain. The heavy drops from the night sky mix with your tears, then there’s a hand on your shoulder, and Sam’s soft voice in your ear, “______?”

Slowly, you turn toward Sam’s voice, but before you look up at him, the same flicker of pale blue that you saw before appears just beyond Sam’s shoulder.

It’s Phil. He gives you one more loving smile and a nod of his head, and then he’s gone.

Somehow, you just know that you’ll never see him again.

“______,” Sam repeats your name again. It’s just as soft as it was before, but there’s much more concern behind it this time. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer softly with your teeth chattering from the cold rain.

“You’re freezing. C’mon.” He holds out his hand. “My brother’s car is at the pumps on the other side of the store.”

As you take Sam’s hand, you feel the metal teeth on your room key dig into your palm. He must feel it too, because he looks down and sees the plastic motel logo on the key chain hanging down from your fist.

Sam’s eyes are wide when they look back up at you. “Are you staying in town?”

“Yeah,” you dumbly answer and clumsily nod your head. You're still in shock.

Looking away from you, Sam stares across the street at your motel. He looks at it for a second, like he’s contemplating something, then looks back at you. His hand not holding yours reaches up and touches your raindrop and tear-stained cheek. “How are you _here_?”

“Honestly?” You look away from Sam and back at the spot where Phil was just a few moments ago. “I really don’t know.” You bring your eyes back to Sam’s. “How are _you_ here? I thought I’d never see you again.”

Not answering, he only gives you a small smile. A moment passes where only the sound of the rain hitting the ground and the traffic is audible, and then Sam’s lips are on yours.

Raindrops mix with the taste of Sam, as his lips softly brush against yours. When you return his soft kisses, he pulls you even closer to him. He’s not saying a word, but as he wraps his arms around you, it feels like he never wants to let you go.

You realize that you don’t want him to.

When the gentle kiss ends, Sam doesn't let you go. He whispers against your lips, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, either.”

Just as the words come out of his mouth, both you and Sam hear his phone go off in his pocket. Like he knows who it is, he chuckles to himself and shakes his head while pulling it out of his jacket. You watch him read the text message and turn around to look over his shoulder.

Dean’s standing at the far edge of the Gas ‘n Sip grinning at you and Sam. You watch the two of them share a look, then Sam shyly nods his head. When you clearly see the teasing-smirk on Dean’s face, you can’t help but give him a slightly embarrassed smile, then both you and Sam watch Dean quickly go around the other side of the store.

When Dean’s gone, Sam holds out his hand again. You take it, and the two of you jog through the rain toward your motel room. You’ve got a million questions – and you’re sure that Sam does too – but you keep quiet the whole way, remembering Phil’s words, _I helped a little bit, but you won’t be alone anymore. This is where you’re supposed to be. Be happy. Fall in love. Live your life, any kind of life you want. I want you to. Please, baby, do it for me. I love you so much._

Considering who you’re jogging across the road with, you want to make assumptions, but you know Sam’s life. He’s a hunter. He’s obviously got his brother back, and you met him at some roadside Gas ‘n Sip.

You’re just starting your life over. You bought yourself a house that’s barely a mile away, and Sam will probably have to go back on the road again in the next few hours.

Phil couldn’t have meant that you were supposed to be _here_ , in Lebanon, with Sam, right?

*//*

The rain pours down on Sam as he stands behind you, watching you unlock your motel room door in the dark.

Part of him is in shock. Just like you, he thought he’d never see you again, but there’s another part of him that is questioning _everything_. With the life that he’s led, it’s hard for him to believe in coincidences, but just when he thinks that you could be a demon – or even something else – you take his hand and lead him inside your motel room.

He sees the salt on the floor and on the window, then notices the charms and sigils hanging on the wall. Of course, Sam recognizes them all, and he keeps his flask of holy water in his jacket pocket.

After you close the door behind him, Sam starts to repeat his earlier question of _How are you here?_ but he stops when he sees the look on your face. You don’t quite look as shocked and overwhelmed as you did before, but Sam still knows that there’s something wrong.

Knowing that it’s been a month since he’s seen you – not to mention the fact that he left you the way he did – Sam feels a little guilty for just kissing you the way he did a few moments before. You’re not looking at him, but you’re still holding his hand. He carefully turns you toward him. “Are you okay?” Sam points to the sigils and charms hanging on the wall. “Are you in trouble?”

“No,” you quickly assure him and shake your head. “Just precautions.”

When you don’t answer his first question, Sam asks it again, “Are you okay?”

He watches you sigh, but then you finally look up at him. “Yeah; I think so. Just a very _long_ and very _weird_ couple of days.”

Seeing that your face is still as pale as he noticed it was in the Gas ‘n Sip and that you’re still shivering, Sam leads you over to a chair and has you sit down. “I’m gonna go grab some towels.”

After you nod your head, he walks toward the bathroom. When he comes back a minute later, you’ve got on dry pair of pants and with your back to him, you’re pulling a shirt over your head. Sam waits until the naked glimpse of your back is gone, then he walks up to you and hands you the towels.

What you hand him is something he was _not_ expecting.

As you give him the blue and black plaid shirt that he’s been missing for a month, you softly say, “You left this at my apartment.”

You don’t know it yet, but Sam knows about the fire that destroyed your entire bar. What he doesn’t know is how you’ve still got his shirt. He saw what was left of your bar, and there wasn’t much. Still, he takes the shirt out of your hand and quietly murmurs, “Thanks.”

As Sam takes off his jacket and shirts, replacing them with the shirt that he still doesn’t know how you have, you towel dry your hair. He drapes his wet clothes over the back and arms of a chair like you’ve already done, then sits down on the edge of the bed in front of you.

Color has started to come back to your face, but you’re still shivering. Slowly, Sam leans forward and reaches to cover your icy fingers with his hands. “What are you- I mean, why are you- _How_ are you-” Embarrassed by his inability to form a proper sentence, Sam sighs softly at himself and starts over. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I just got here,” you admit quietly. “Like _just_ got here. Maybe a half an hour ago. I-”

Just as you stop talking, Sam watches you jump in your chair and look out the window when a pale blue light, from what Sam assumes is the motel’s ‘No Vacancy’ sign, flickers on outside.

So quietly, you ask, “You see that, right?”

Sam’s confused, but he answers, “Of course I see it. It’s just the sign above the motel.”

You nod your head, but Sam sees the little bit of color that started to come back to your cheeks has vanished. He was worried before, but as he watches your wide eyes flick back and forth across the parking lot, like you’re _waiting_ for something, that worry multiplies even more.

He stands up from the bed, pulls off the comforter, drapes it over your shoulders, and kneels down in front of you. Reaching up to wipe the tears away from your cheeks, Sam gently tells you, “You can tell me. I _want_ to help.”

“I’ve been driving all day,” you answer him weakly. “I’m _so_ tired.”

Because Sam does know that the fire in your bar happened just over forty-eight hours ago, he gets why you’re so tired. “Okay. If you want, we can talk in the morning.”

He reaches for the complimentary pad of paper that sits on the kitchenette table and writes down his phone number. He opens his mouth to ask you to call him in the morning when you wake up, but as soon as he does, Sam realizes that the last thing he wants to do is leave you. He just found you again.

Still, Sam doesn’t want to assume anything. Sure, he spent one night in your bed and shared one little kiss in the Gas ‘n Sip parking lot, but he knows all of that might not mean as much to you as it does to him. Then, he realizes that after all this time and after all your circumstances, you kept his shirt.

Taking a chance, Sam crouches down in front of you and takes your hands in his. “C’mon. You should sleep.”

There’s a half-second where Sam thinks that you’re going to start talking, but then your hands are out of his and wrapped around the back his neck, pulling him into a hug. You’re not making a sound, but he can feel you holding back sobs.

“Shhh,” Sam murmurs softly and strokes the back of your hair. He wants to assume that you’re just upset from the fire and losing everything, but it just feels like something more. “It’s going to be okay.”

His few words only make you hold onto him tighter, so Sam lifts you up out of the chair and brings you over to the bed. When you don’t let him go, he climbs under the blankets with you. He knows it’s the right thing to do when you curl up against him.

After a few quiet minutes, Sam can feel you stop shivering. He starts to ask you what happened, but the pale blue light from the motel’s ‘No Vacancy’ sign still shines into the room just enough to illuminate your face. He can see that you’ve already fallen asleep.

The pale blue light is oddly comforting for Sam as he watches you sleep. Still, he knows that he _lives_ in Lebanon. The bunker is just on the other side of town, and Sam assumes that your situation is very much like his when he first met you: you’re just passing through town.

As he realizes your circumstances, Sam has a thought. This time, _you’re_ going to be the one to leave _him_. He can’t ask you to stay, because he’s got his life, and you’ve got yours. As far as Sam knows, nothing has changed.

In spite of his thoughts, an idea enters Sam's mind. He's not exactly sure where it comes from, but he thinks it over and over again. _This is where you're supposed to be. Take care of her._ Sam's half asleep, but the quiet words in his mind make him protectively wrap his arms tighter around you.

A minute later, Sam is asleep in the same pale blue light as you.

Sam can’t see it, but the motel’s ‘No Vacancy’ sign is neon-orange, not pale blue.

Phil smiles before he flickers away.


End file.
